Disclaimer: This Bark post contains politically inclined messages. Consider this fair warning.

One of my favorite places to go is the post office. I am always amazed by all of the letters and packages that circulate through there, where they came from and where they’re going. So many words and things carefully packaged, wrapped in plastic bubbles, addressed by hand. It makes me happy to know that people still converse through letters, send each other presents, and take the time to do it personally. It’s one of my favorite places to go. It’s busy, it’s historical, it’s real, and it’s something that we all depend on. It makes me smile seeing all of that communication in motion. And who doesn’t love to get things in the mail as long as it’s not a bill or junk mail.

About a month ago I was thrilled to discover we were out of stamps. So I took a stroll to my favorite downtown post office, ready to mail some letters and enjoy the comforting scene and smell of cardboard and paper being sorted and placed in bags and cars and planes to be sent around the world. Delivered by people who are protected by a Union, who go to PTA meetings, and vote in elections. People who love what they do. But once I got there I was not comforted. I was instead consumed by fear and worry.

Outside the post office, people were holding signs that read, SAVE THE US POSTAL SERVICE. They were chanting the words, shaking their fists in the air, protesting the impending doom of the USPS budget, the threat of lay-offs and vanishing pensions. But why, you ask, would anyone want to bully these people out of their jobs? We’re talking about 9 million jobs. Who would dare mess with the beloved postal service? Why should these people, the people who bring us our mail on time no matter wind nor sleet nor hail nor snow, have to worry about these things? They should be doing well. They should be sorting letters, spending time with their families, writing letters to friends, reading books, and making doctor appointments for checkups paid for by the benefits they are promised and pay for. They shouldn’t have to fight for their basic rights as workers. They are friendly, hardworking American people who do their best for little recognition, insulting benefits, and minimal pay. What’s the threat? Read more »

Yesterday afternoon I went to the Lansing-area NaNoWriMo kickoff party. I wasn’t sure I was going to go—mostly I just wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon relaxing on the couch—but this is the group I started back in 2005 and ran for two years.

Okay. I’ll be honest for a second. There’s another reason I wasn’t sure I wanted to go: I think of myself as more advanced than these other writers. I’ve got an MFA, I’m published, and I’m well networked in the literary world. I’m presenting at AWP, for heaven’s sake!

I’m a little ashamed to admit these feelings—especially since I blog regularly about making the writing world more inclusive, about not turning one’s nose up at non-literary work. These two thoughts don’t really go together. Read more »

It’s Halloween! Happy Halloween! Listen to James Earl Jones read The Raven. Or watch John Cusack try to be Poe.

Boo!

Fall is my favorite season and I’ve always loved Halloween. Why? Because I like dressing fugly and heinous. I like having an excuse to watch Addams Family Values. And I love few things more than a dark foggy night, the ground wet and covered in yellow leaves, moon moving in and out behind clouds, creepy-ass people lurking in bushes….it’s romantic enough to make me start kicking my pants off.

I grew up a very fearful child. VERY fearful. I was afraid of everything. All the time. Even now, as an adult, if I even think about the theme-song to “Unsolved Mysteries” or hear the narrator’s freaky-as-shit voice, it makes my skin go cold.

That being said, I loved Roald Dahl growing up. While his books are not necessarily scary, they are dark and pretty twisted as far as children’s books are concerned. I still remember my mother not wanting to read them to me, stating: “they are too dark.”
People get crushed by giant peaches, children are turned into mice, bones get crunched, teachers abuse students, guardians abuse children, people abuse animals, etc etc…. Read more »

I’m in the second year of EWU’s MFA creative nonfiction program, but I’ve been at this college thing – off and on – for almost eighteen years. I feel I need only say I have children as sufficient insight as to why I’ve taken so long. I have two daughters at home; one is seventeen and one is seven. ‘Truth is I do love being a student. I love learning, the humility in being shown new things, in being constantly challenged. I love the university setting, the coffee shops filled with intellectuals dressed all artsy fartsy. I love the diversity (I like to think I bring my own wayward perspective). I love critical thinking. I love political awareness. I’ve grown quite cozy with these surroundings, and I like to think I’m parenting with an extra flair of open-mindedness. Fall, the start of a new school year, always make me smile, especially Halloween. Last week, when my seven-year-old squealed over a pair of fairy wings as we shopped the Halloween racks at Goodwill (because student mothers often find themselves shopping at Goodwill), I deflated into a pool of Long-Time- College-Mama disappointment.

A Winx Fairy feelin' the breeze on her curvy, exposed thighs and midriff.

Fairy wings? I’m not a perfect mother, and maybe I could’ve/should’ve put more effort into shielding my seven-year-old from the dank, social constructs of gender. I have, however, finally convinced my daughter that glittery pink is NOT the only favorite color option for girls. I have incessantly refused to let her join the Winx Club, an online club in homage to skinny, underdressed, cartoon fairies with profane amounts of hair. I’ve spent hours arguing with my daughter over the impracticalities of wearing a skirt without a pair of shorts underneath. We’ve even shared intimate discussion regarding the ways in which the Disney Princesses could’ve been smarter given their circumstances (We decided together that Snow White was an idiot). This year, for Halloween my seven-year-old had already told me she wanted to be a soldier – not a “soldier girl” in a mini-skirt and red lipstick (a costume likely packaged and sold in Wal-Mart) but a hardcore solider in pants. I confess: I loved it! My daughter had decided – of her own accord – she wanted to be decked out in camo, smear greasy paint on her face, and thump around in heavy boots. The only stipulation I added was No Gun. She didn’t care much. “Ninja moves” was her weapon of choice.  Read more »

Back in the old twisted happy Greek times, poets would address the Muses at the start of their work, asking for a blessing. These days, poets (and prose writers too, I don’t mean to be exclusive) often begin their collection with an acknowledgment page, blessing all those family members, loved ones, mentors, and peers whose support made the collection possible.

It’s a sweet tradition. And when, one day in the future, I publish my first book, I will certainly want to thank the people in my life who believe in me and my poetry. Because they make me want to get up in the morning and write and make them proud and stuff.

But they’re not the only ones who affect my poetry and inspire me to write. In fact, if I were being truthful when assembling my acknowledgment page, I would have to include a whole other list of unsung heroes: my anti-muses. Read more »

Part 2:  Last week I started to summarize my experience at a teleconference put on by the National Association of Memoir Writers.  The conference’s subject was truth in nonfiction, always a hot topic in the creative nonfiction arena.   This week I’m going to move on to the second conference.  It was called “Memoir:  A Hot Genre in Today’s Marketplace,” though I’m not sure that was the topic, but nonetheless  it flowed really nicely from Dinty W. Moore’s conference on truth in CNF.  He stressed the need that people have to tell their stories:  “It’s good for the world.”  The author on this second teleconference was Jennifer Lauck, author of Blackbird, Found:  A Memoir, two other memoirs, and a bunch of digital craft lesson downloads. 

                In “Why I Write,” Terry Tempest Williams says “I write to the questions that shatter my sleep.”  That seems to be the way Lauck sees things too.  Read more »

I’ve been having a recurring dream for the last few months. In the dream, I am standing in a field of short grass, hunting for four-leaf clovers. When I find one, I eat it.

The dream-me has rationalized that I must eat the clover to gain its lucky power—in the same way that the colonizers said “cannibals” ate other men to gain their power in some supernatural way. That and apparently in this dream, I don’t have any pockets. After eating the clover, I hope that the trick will work, but I am saddened that I no longer have the clover to touch and hold as a talisman.

This is not the first time that I have had a recurring dream—for several years I dreamed about going into the grocery store to buy blueberries, but purchasing blueberry substitute (pie filling, flavored ice cream, etc.) instead. In that dream, I was always disappointed in the checkout line, knowing that the syrupy goods that I had purchased would in no way satisfy my craving for real berries.

I am thinking of dreams, perhaps, not because they are persistent in their recurrence, but because Murakami’s new book hit the shelves this week, and I am eager to read the novel. Murakami uses dreams and music like no one’s business as a way to access the inner life of a character. With a few dreams and a song, he can display the underworld of the psyche to bring out a core, fragmented narrative and send reverberations in the reader. Read more »

Refreshing, tart, cool...no no, dig deeper

So – another Barker – convinced me, or rather asked me across a room, if I would join her and another poet in writing a poem-a-day for November. This was our response to NaNoWriMo because we don’t like to be left out and also because we don’t have any new material to give our thesis advisors. Once I’d committed myself I thought I would cheat a little by writing down ideas I had for poems and assigning them to days in the month. Well I just looked at what I’ve written down so far and I think November is going to be pretty fun. The following are my notes, verbatim:

Nov 1. – Sexual experience while redressing a male mannequin

Nov 2 – Lemonade

Nov 3-  Washing hair as an adult as compared to having it washed as a child Read more »

They say that the soreness you feel after a workout is lactic acid building up in your muscles. I’ve heard it said that, because soreness is caused by lactic acid buildup–lactic acid that your body wants to burn–the best cure for soreness is working out. Around 2006, a Dr. George A. Brooks and his colleagues proved that lactic acid isn’t anything bad, isn’t even necessarily what causes pain. It’s fuel that your body produces to help you work out even harder, and it’s gone from your system about an hour after exercise; soreness can set in as long as several days after exercise. You’re sore because you’re changing. You’re sore because you’re getting stronger.

My yoga teacher likes to talk us through the tougher poses, the ones where your thighs start burning and quaking and it’s all you can do not to fall over. She likes to say we can find contentment anywhere, even in a burning muscle. Read more »

Have to see the movie to find out

Around the Willow Springs office, author Robert Lopez is often incorrectly referred to as Rob, an error we inherited from our boss, Sam Ligon, who knew him before he was Robert. The name is going to appear on the cover of Willow Springs 69, which is set to include an interview with Lopez, and, during a recent edit of the front cover, Sam caught the name listed as Rob, which we hastily corrected. The difference is simple, but distinct. Rob is Sam’s friend and colleague. Robert Lopez isn’t a person.

As soon as a text is written, its author becomes a brand—a way of describing a style, worldview, or type of prose. This is the moment where writer becomes author, transferring power from himself to the consumer. For instance, while Rob is a private name, for friends and family, Robert Lopez yields control to public interpretation. When this interpretation becomes collective, authors’ names morph into adjectives like Homeric, Dickensian, and Kafkaesque, all of which can be used to describe more than just books. These authors become part of the lexicon, shifting from the signified to the signifier.

Shakespearian is an adjective that has come to mean many things to many different people. In fact, most people recognize Shakespeare as an adjective or signifier before they ever pick up one of his plays. Some might say that this is what constitutes a classic—a book that is a signifier prior to being read. If so, Shakespeare is the ultimate example—becoming so much of an abstract noun that even his contemporaries forgot to gather evidence of his existence.

Read more »